


Oil on Canvas

by ignipes



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-12
Updated: 2006-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:40:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is the only one left now, alone with the whispers in the hall, the memories in the wood, the shadows in the windowpanes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oil on Canvas

She hears the quiet muttering in the foyer as she sits down to dinner.

The candles on the table flicker, disturbed by her entrance, and in the yellow light she can see a fine layer of dust on the other chairs. One to her left, one to her right, one straight ahead, smooth polished wood and fine old carvings, and as she looks at each in turn she reminds herself to punish one of the house-elves for neglecting the dining room.

As the food appears on her plate, the muttering in the foyer grows louder. She ignores it and takes a silver fork in one hand and a knife in the other. Bone-white porcelain, silver edging, faint green details: her wedding china.

She'll punish one of the house-elves for that too.

-

The message arrives by courier rather than owl.

She is in her drawing room, sorting through her collection of charmed and cursed daggers. Delicate silver blades set in red velvet, hilts in black and brown and gold, the collection is quite beautiful, shining with unnatural light in the dim room.

Through a narrow space in the curtains she can see the street below. There is nothing to interest her, only Muggles and their filthy automobiles, endless rubbish and unruly children. They have no respect for their neighbourhood nor pride in the homes, but she watches anyway, and she is amused to see the messenger wandering in confusion on Grimmauld Place.

Up and down, down and up, past the house and back again, he falters and scratches his head as he peers at the numbers on eleven and thirteen.

When she grows bored of his stupidity, she closes the mahogany box that holds her Greek collection and waves her wand to reveal the house.

-

_We regret to inform you._

"Elf," she says. Her voice echoes in the foyer, striking the walls with a harsh, strident tone, and the portraits all around stir from their slumber.

_Enquires are proceeding._

"Elf," she repeats, louder and more firmly. Behind the curtain there is a dry cackle.

_Suspicions and allegations must be addressed._

Wide eyes, contrite ears, filthy linen shift: one of the creatures appears in the dark hallway, wringing its hands and blinking.

"Mistress called?"

"See to it that my mourning robes are cleaned and pressed," she says.

She isn't looking at the house-elf. The curtains above her are swaying slightly, as though brushed by a breeze, and she sees a sliver of colour, quickly revealed and concealed.

"I shall need them on Thursday. Two days from now," she adds, lest the idiot creature confuse the days again.

-

When she returns, the door slams shut behind her. She pauses at the base of the stairs to remove her gloves, peeling them slowly down her arms, carefully folding the silk over her silver bracelet and gold wedding band.

"He was a cowardly disgrace."

She freezes, her left hand naked, right still gloved, the hair on her neck rising.

"Snivelling and crying, unable to do what was asked."

Slowly, she turns. The curtains are open, though she is certain they were closed when she left. She thinks again about stitching them up, a good strong charm that cannot be broken, but that is too much like admitting defeat.

"No better than the other one in the end. Blood-traitor to the core. Rotten, rotten."

She doesn't meet its eyes, doesn't watch its lips sneer or its nostrils flare. She removes the second glove and folds both them carefully between her palms, rubbing her fingers absently over the soft silk.

Two hesitant steps up, a pause, then she continues, her heels clicking soundly on the wooden treads.

"No-one left to carry the blood now, can't you see?"

Behind her the voice rises and falls, mutters and shrieks, and the portraits in the foyer are bothered. There is a stitching charm that will close the curtains for good; the words dance through her mind, faded and half-forgotten.

Tomorrow, she thinks, tomorrow she will find it.

She closes the drawing room door, muffles the voice and shuts out the light from the sconces in the corridor.

If she remembers.


End file.
